


That Which is Mine

by entanglednow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Food Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-09
Updated: 2009-06-09
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's guilty, Dean's bored, Castiel learns valuable life lessons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Which is Mine

Dean's pretty useless for hunting at the moment. He still has stitches in his leg that aren't up to running through graveyards, or getting thrown into any walls. Not unless he wants to spontaneously _not_ have stitches in his leg any more.

It's been long enough to be irritating, but not quite long enough that he's in danger of going completely insane. But hell the tipping point is pretty much in sight. Which might be why Sam keeps thinking up important things to do somewhere else.

At least he hopes it is.

He's giving Sam the benefit there, because he knows how much of a massive dick he can be. Not that he'd ever admit to it, ever.

Speak of the devil; Sam appears in the motel doorway, all coat and hair and trails of cold air from outside. A collection of bags and complicated frowny face that Dean seriously needs to tell him makes him look like one of those dogs with all the skin. Can't remember the damn name. Either way, not flattering.

The bag has promise.

Sam leaves it within reaching distance, with what is a _totally unnecessary_ amount of caution.

Dean snags it up onto his one raised leg, and discovers that it contains, among other things appropriate to not being able to run around and hunt monsters, pie! Two pieces, two damn pieces- with cream. They're generous enough that Dean's going to guess Sam loomed over some poor woman while she carved them out of the mothership herself.

Which is either Sam feeling guilty, or his leg looked like more of a mess than he thought it did.

Sam feeling guilty is a pretty good guess, considering how the world nearly ended. Considering how they made a fucking mess of it right up to the apocalypse.

It's a damn good job they got everything right after that.

"Oh dude you're my favourite person!"

"Like you would have let me leave alive if I'd come back without pie again."

"So what? You're just feeding me so I don't bitch at you." Dean tries to look wounded, while secretly deciding that this is perfectly acceptable. Because food is good!

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sam says flatly.

He watches Dean dig his way into a box with an expression of patient amusement that he should probably be insulted by. But the pie is too good. It's really hard to be properly insulted when your mouth is full.

"Are you good?" Sam's still smiling.

"I'm good," Dean tells him with his mouth full.

"I was gonna go see if the library had anything-"

Dean waves a hand.

"Yeah, go, go!"

Sam looks guilty before he goes; he looks guilty when he leaves. Like he's disappearing off to do something dramatically stupid...again.

Though Dean knows he isn't, knows _absolutely_ that he isn't. Even if Sam seems confused that he still trusts him to go. But that's because Dean is the _awesome_ brother.

So, yeah, that expression's going to stay there for a while. But not forever. Nothing stays forever. At the moment everything is ok, everything is un-fucking-believably ok.

Except the hole in his leg, but considering how much worse things could be. He's fine with that.

He multitasks with his fork and the TV remote, and its magical channel-switching properties.

"Boring, boring boring-"

"Dean-"

"Holy-" the remote goes skittering off the bed; it lands in a collection of plastic and batteries two feet away from Castiel's feet.

Dean does notice that he managed to hold onto the fork. So his priorities are pretty clear here, subconsciously hang on to the food.

Hell there was nothing on the TV anyway.

"Could you _not_ do that. Seriously, I'll put a freakin' bell on you, I'm not kidding."

Castiel doesn't react to the threat. He just sits on the edge of the bed, in that strange way, like he's waiting for Dean to drop everything and pay attention.

Though he's never really surprised when he doesn't. So maybe that isn't it. Maybe he just needs to take a moment to bask in his awesome. Or some crap, the angels have been doing creepy variations on that since he made sure the world didn't end.

Still it's nice that Cas isn't on heaven's most wanted list any more,

Something about _'not being an asshole'_ being the general theme at the end rather than _'starting a fight with hell just to show off'_ according to the archangels. Or something. Either way he remembered the whole _'earth as an apocalyptic wasteland'_ not going down too well with the management, the _upper_ management. Maybe?

He hadn't really been listening. What with being busy with stopping the apocalypse at the time.

But apparently it's all good, especially with Castiel. So Dean has tentatively taken the angels off of his shit list.

Until such time as they prove themselves to be massive dicks again.

Or start jerking him around again.

Or show up down here and _annoy_ him.

In fact if they just stay up there, doing angel things, Dean thinks they'll get along fine.

"I hope you haven't come with any sort of special mission or anything. Because I'm taking the week off due to the giant hole in my leg," Dean points out, he gestures with the fork.

Castiel doesn't look where he's pointing, so maybe he doesn't think the whole 'hole in the leg' thing is a big deal. Which, yeah, that's irritating. Everyone was unimpressed by the 'hole in the leg' until they had one of their own.

Instead Cas is doing his most serious eyebrow furrow, which Dean thinks he over-uses. He might tell him about that. About certain facial expressions not being appropriate to the situation, now matter how easy you found them to do.

That was facial laziness.

"There is no special mission," he says seriously, in his serious voice. He pauses, seemingly to watch Dean eat. "I'm simply following your instructions to 'drop in occasionally.'"

"Really?" Dean's surprised with his mouth full, which probably isn't a good look for him, but really that's kind of surprising.

"Yes." Castiel frowns. "If that was wrong-"

"No, no, it's fine-it's good that you're here! I just figured you'd go back to doing your upstairs things, being an angel, and stuff. That we wouldn't hear from you again, what with the apocalypse not happening any more." Which would suck, Dean decided months ago that for all his tendency to be a _freakish alien_ most of the time Castiel is...Castiel. Dean kind of likes having him around.

The frown deepens in the middle, and Castiel's head cants ever so slightly to one side, as if he's trying to unpick some complex knot.

"Dean, you stopped the apocalypse, you saved millions, possibly billions, of people. Against the wishes of those far more powerful than yourself. We would not desert you after such a feat. You were never a tool to be used and thrown away. I never saw you as such."

The pie's listing on the fork.

"Huh," Dean says, because it's either that or something less manly. He eats the pie, and that bit tastes _especially_ delicious.

He tries to think of something more manly to say in response. Fails utterly.

"Thanks," he says instead, which seems to be ok.

"Still, you shouldn't allow yourself to become complacent-"

Castiel stops talking, because he now has a mouthful of apple pie.

Dean congratulates himself on a _pretty damn sweet_ way of shutting him the hell up.

Castiel sits there with a strangely bewildered expression on his face, like he has no idea what to do with it. And Dean thinks it would be really un-angelic, and totally wasteful, to just spit it out.

But he figures maybe he needs a hint, so he reaches up, and pushes Castiel's mouth shut.

After a beat, Castiel starts tentatively chewing.

He seems briefly confused about _when_ exactly to swallow, though he does finally manage it.

Dean half expects him to start right up again, about the danger of sitting around waiting for the minions of hell to come after him, or something.

But, nope, Dean seems to have briefly derailed his heavenly thought train.

He decides he's going to feel smug about that.

He watches Castiel's mouth open cautiously, and he's honestly curious whether he's about to get an opinion on the pie, or more grave pronouncements on his continuing mission to destroy evil wherever he finds it.

But it's too damn tempting.

"Dude you have to try the cream."

Dean's pretty good at killing protest just by being enthusiastic. Or maybe Castiel is still vaguely bewildered at being blindsided by tasty pastry confectionary. Either way Dean manages to get the white edge of the fork between Castiel's lips before he can close them. The he pushes his mouth shut after with a finger.

He wonders if Castiel can taste it, the sweet, rich, sugary hollow softness of it. Or whether it's all just a clinical list of ingredients on the tongue.

From the way he very carefully and slowly attends to what's in his mouth Dean's going for 'sugary awesomeness.'

"Then you get the pie and the cream." Dean constructs a pretty good balance of pie and cream on the fork, turns it and slides it into Castiel's curious mouth.

He doesn't have to coax it shut this time.

"Yeah?"

Castiel's tongue slides out, cleans his upper lip, in what seems somewhere between a half-remembered gesture and honest curiosity.

Either way, Dean thinks, it's kind of dirty.

He tries for a sensible face, while the angel works his way through the foreign concept known as 'indulgence.'

"So, which bit did you like best?"

Castiel frowns, like it's a more important question than Dean's flippancy suggests.

"The fruit," he says at last, soft but decisive. The depth of his voice lending a weight to the words that makes Dean arch an amused eyebrow at him. Then he gives in and laughs, box sliding on his knees.

"The fruit, huh? Now see I would have figured you were a cream sort of person."

Dean fishes around in the sheets, only to discover that he's lost the fork somewhere on the grubby motel carpet.

"Damn it!"

Dean regards what's left of his pie, squishy inviting collection of pastry, fruit and cream and then he eyes the fork on the floor.

He makes a noise which sounds mournful.

Castiel makes the smallest noise, a tiny, almost inaudible, snort.

Dean looks at him, and finds him watching him. His mouth is soft, and every so slightly raised at the edges. In what looks a hell of a lot like amusement.

Before he realises it, he has a fistful of Castiel's tie, he gives him a heartbeat, two, to pull away. But Castiel just waits, for...whatever comes next. A strange gesture of trust, that Dean knows he doesn't deserve, and especially not now. Jesus, _especially_ not now.

Castiel's mouth is still sweet, a slippery mixture of fruit and sin that he'd probably wholly disapprove of if he knew. He kisses back slowly, a beat behind, like he's seen it done before but never been involved. And if Dean had ever thought of pulling away he's completely incapable now.

He wonders what the hell he thinks he's doing. How he went from being happy to have Castiel around to _this._ How in the name of god could you not know you wanted something until you had it?

And Dean's absolutely certain he's never been this surprised in a kiss that he started before.

It surprises him enough that he _does_ pull away; watches Castiel with less than an inch between them.

"You're probably not supposed to do this, huh?" Deans says quietly.

Castiel says nothing, and damned if that isn't an answer, or something like one. Dean tries to look at something other than Castiel's mouth.

He lets his tie slip through his fingers, clears his throat, and finds his pie where it's slid off of his leg.

Castiel catches his wrist.

"Dean, you can do things others can't," he says simply. Dean thinks he's going to leave it there, but apparently Dean's frown requires more words. "Some of the rules have been bent around you. You're free to choose your own rewards."

Dean goes very still, chest uncomfortably tight. His hand reflexively pulls away.

"Is _that_ why you're letting me do this?"

"No," Castiel says quietly.

"Cas?"

"No," the angel says, more fiercely this time, and there's _heat_ behind it. "No, that's not why I'm letting you do this."

"But would you, if you were told to?"

Dean knows the answer will be yes, and hates the fact that he asked. Wishes he could take it back.

But Castiel ignores the question, so maybe he's learning after all. Instead he shifts, ever so slightly closer, fingers on Dean's hand. Though he doesn't seem to know what to do with it once he has it.

Dean's heartbeat is still almost angrily fast, pushed off kilter, but still needy enough to want without quite knowing whether it's right or not.

"Dean," Castiel says eventually, not just his name, nothing that simple.

Dean exhales, finds the warmth of his neck, pulls him in, and kisses him again. Gets lost in the warmth of Castiel's mouth, moving like it shouldn't, and accepting things it shouldn't, going where Dean pushes. He feels like a bastard for finding that so fucking hot.

Dean nearly crushes what's left of his pie when he moves.

He pushes it up towards the pillows out of the way, though he can't resist breaking a bit off, and it tastes just as good off of his fingers.

Castiel watches him, half fascinated and half something else, something too faint to catch.

Dean paints a streak of apple across his lower lip just because it's _there._

Castiel blinks, very slowly, and opens his mouth.

Which is an invitation Dean is _damned_ if he's resisting, and he discovers that, yes, putting his fingers in an angels mouth is possibly the dirtiest thing he's ever done.

He can feel the wet slide of Castiel's tongue, the faint scrape of teeth, and a shiver of suction when he doesn't immediately pull them free.

"Do you know how indecent that is?" he asks, with what, he suspects, is the last sensible part of his brain. It looks pretty obscene too.

Ok it looks really obscene now that his brain has actually _gone there._

"In about five seconds I'm going to accuse you of being a tease and that's pretty dramatic considering."

He slides his fingers free, paints a sticky line across Castiel's jaw when he holds it, tips his head back and kisses him again. Castiel takes it, opens his mouth. The warm, apple-slick taste of him is more arousing than it has any right to be. Though he doesn't move his hands to touch him he's not passive, his breathing isn't entirely flat, and his mouth moves under Dean's on every push. Eyes shut every time Dean tips his head back, every time his hands catch Castiel's disordered hair.

Dean shifts round awkwardly, a quick hiss going through him at the way pain threads warningly through his calf muscle.

Castiel's eyes flick open, serious and concerned, bluer and less real than before.

"No," Dean says roughly, finds his face and drags his thumb over his jaw, the tacky line of his mouth. "No, ignore the damn leg. You get to be reckless for a change. You get to be greedy."

"Dean-"

"Cas," Dean says simply, and he thinks maybe there's something in his voice, because Castiel relaxes, visibly, maybe half unwillingly, but he relaxes; Dean breathes relief and kisses him again, just because he can.

Then he presses him back-

Or at least he tries to.

Castiel is completely and utterly unmovable for one amusing, and surprisingly hot, second. Until he seems to realise that Dean is easing him back for a reason, and he softens under him.

He lets him bear him down into the sheets, coat and jacket spreading under Dean's careless hands. He doesn't protest when Dean starts picking the buttons of his shirt open. He's more interested in tipping his head back, to accept the open warmth of Dean's mouth.

Dean's eye catches the edge of the box, which still holds wet curves of cream.

His arms stretches up without thinking about it, he digs his thumb into the whiteness of it.

Castiel opens his mouth, and Dean lays the flavour on his tongue, and then kisses him. Sweet and slick underneath. His thumbs skids down, pulls stickiness down Castiel's throat while he does his best to paint it across his tongue. Takes every soft needy noise the angel makes under the attention, and fucking _keeps_ it.

His hands pull the shirt open, shove it outwards, and Dean pins him there with his hands, leaves his mouth to find the line of his throat, and the shifting skin of his chest that hitches and drops on every breath. His teeth push sticky marks into his skin that fade just as quickly. Though Castiel makes noises like he feels every one with startling clarity. Like Dean has pushed him open, found the places where he's _real._ And he can't help but react to that.

When Dean draws back and really looks at him he decides that Castiel looks perfect like this. Spread outwards like he's been flung there, colour in his face and the long soft planes of him bare under Dean's hands.

It makes him want to break him into pieces, to hear him fall apart under Dean's hands, and his thumbs dig into the soft-hard edges of his hipbones, skim the top of his pants in one long teasing line, and Dean knows what he wants. Knows what he's going to do.

His leg protests the slide down the bed, but Dean's twisted enough that even that's kind of good.

He drags open Castiel's pants, hooks his fingers inside and draws them down. Briefly distracted by the tense-relax of his thighs, and the warm curve of his ass.

He works his tongue against the soft, warm hollow of Castiel's stomach and there's a shiver and a dizzy-quick push of hips, sliding the full hardness of Castiel's cock against the skin of his throat.

And Dean can't say no to that, can't fucking say no, he tips his head down and opens his mouth.

He won't think about the last time he did this, concentrates instead on the heady gasp of air that Castiel draws into his lungs. The startled, helpless, shocked noise that falls out of him at the wet slide of Dean's mouth.

Castiel is appreciative of everything, the little twitches of his hips restless and confused until Dean has his hands wrapped round them, thumbs digging in and then skating away, while he works his mouth down, tongue pushing whenever the noises go low in his throat.

But when Castiel tips his head forward to watch him Dean makes a stunned hard little noise in his throat, hands tightening wherever they find skin.

Castiel's eyes are startle-bright and unfocused, chest moving in quick, almost painfully real breaths. His hands flutter over Dean's hair, like he doesn't know how to demand what he wants, like he _refuses_ to demand it.

Dean's not sure he could take that though, the push of Castiel's hands. A ragged search for pleasure, he doesn't think he could handle Cas doing that. So he gives him what he wants. He gives him quick, and wet, and messy. Castiel's thighs shift against his arms, confused, greedy little movements, and every breath sounds dragged out of his throat, like he can't control his own breathing.

Until he's completely lost, skin tightening, and then coming apart when he falls. When he leaves Dean's mouth wet, and slick, and aching. Fingers, briefly, brutally hard against the back of Dean's neck, before they seem to catch themselves and slide away.

There's a quick, sharp, grate of pain across his ear drums, and something cracks loudly, Dean thinks it was probably the window.

And then Castiel goes completely, and utterly, limp.

Dean lets him slide free, breathes into his stomach, where the skin is unnaturally warm, and he's half-afraid to move, especially not while Castiel's still making soft, surprised little noises that end in tiny shivers.

He thinks there's a serious danger that he's given the angel some sort of terrible Pavlovian response to apple pie.

  



End file.
